


Watch Party

by SouthernContinentSkies



Series: When a Good Man Goes to War [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25762618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/pseuds/SouthernContinentSkies
Summary: The view from the outside: the Escobaran Embassy watches Count Vorcaron's trial. A companion piece to Chapter 5 of Night Will Fall.
Series: When a Good Man Goes to War [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868923
Comments: 23
Kudos: 51





	Watch Party

**Author's Note:**

> If you have not read NWFaDtS, this will make no sense. If you have read it, but it's been awhile, you may want to look back through Chapter 5. This story takes places concurrently with the events in the Council meeting, and may not track well enough if you have forgotten what those are.

The Escobaran Embassy in Vorbarr Sultana occupied three adjacent townhouses at the edge of the Caravanserai. It had begun in the central house, and expanded outwards on either side at the soonest opportunity - not because the Embassy offices required that much space, but because the buffer countermeasures against Barrayaran surveillance did. The outer townhouses contained whatever non-sensitive operations would generate the most interfering noise, including an in-house laundry facility, several guest rooms with unusually loud vid terminals (the guests were warned not to conduct any business _en suite_ ), and, of course, the kitchen. The Embassy always did its own catering, complete with Escobaran expatriate waiters, usually university students or longterm see-the-Nexus-on-a-budget tourists looking for extra money. The Ambassador considered inexpert service a small price to pay for avoiding ImpSec eavesdroppers.

Irena Calvo, Senior Policy Advisor to the Ambassador, lived in a small but affordable flat towards the outskirts of the city, in a quiet and relatively nondescript neighborhood. Olovskaya Prospekt, where her building was located, boasted a double line of mature Earth elm trees, a double handful of grandmothers conversing at all hours in Barrayaran French and Russian, and generally no other foreigners at all. 

On a good day, it was thirty minutes by groundcar to the Embassy, during rush hour; during an Event, or whenever there was any sort of traffic accident, the time generally doubled. On the morning of the surprise Council meeting, she managed to pull out of her parking garage over an hour earlier than usual. Due to the nature of the agenda, they were expecting the broadcast out of Vorhartung to be suspended before anything interesting could happen, but it wouldn’t do to be late, just in case. If she did get to watch a Count finally get prosecuted for something, she didn’t want to miss any of it.

Thankfully, the traffic in the capital was only usually bad, rather than unusually bad, and Irena was slipping into the reception area of the Ambassador’s office suite a full five minutes before the festivities were scheduled to begin. There was a large vidscreen on the wall next to a seating area, which was usually tuned to the state media channel and left on mute (“all the news the people need to hear,” the Ambassador had muttered on occasion). This morning, in anticipation of actual information being broadcast, someone had turned it up to normal levels.

Irena dropped her bag next to one of the armchairs and crossed to the coffee pot, watching the proceedings with only half an eye. The Barrayaran Council of Counts was the least punctual official body she had ever covered. If the Emperor wasn’t in enough of a hurry to prompt them, they might convene as late as twenty or thirty minutes past time; plenty of time to get some caffeine into her system. She supposed that was what happened when your advertisers weren’t allowed to sue you for running over their spot.

This morning, however, the Emperor’s mood was clearly not so sanguine. He and his escort strode into the chamber ahead of the hour - looking rather more official than usual, Irena thought - and the Counts were seated only a few moments after Irena herself. The prompt call to order - with an actual cavalry spear; Irena would never get tired of _that_ \- was followed by a number of administrative motions and formalities, including, yes, a motion to clear the gallery and turn off the cameras. 

That was it, then. Irena sighed, and reached for the remote to switch off the volume, once the broadcast officially ended and the exceptionally dull state media talking heads took over again.

But it didn’t end. 

The noise of general rearranging percolated through, from Vorhartung Castle to the Embassy vidscreen speakers. Irena could hear the far noises of the Counts shifting in their seats, and the much closer noises of the vidtech adjusting the vidcorder - but not turning it off. Centered in the frame, the Emperor’s impassive face continued to regard the allegedly inactive equipment. The hair on the back of Irena’s neck pricked upwards.

“Jan!” She called back to the inner office. “Get out here! Something’s happening!”

The Deputy Ambassador trundled out to the lounge, holding his habitual late-morning coffee and croissant. “Are they voting already?” he managed through a mouthful. “I wouldn’t have thought they’d even started.”

In answer, Irena merely pointed at the screen, the remote in her still-outstretched hand. The adjustments in Vorhartung had finished, and the Lord Guardian was speaking again.

“They voted to turn it off,” she said urgently. “Like we thought they would. And you could hear the tech messing with the equipment. But it’s not turning off.”

“Hmm,” said Jan through his pastry, regarding the still-functioning broadcast.

“I think he’s doing it on purpose,” said Irena. “Look at his face. This can’t be good.”

Indeed, the Emperor’s face, still centered in the broadcast frame, was pointed directly at the allegedly-inoperative vidcorder.

They watched, silently, as the antiquated legal preamble finished, and an offscreen rustling indicated that whoever would be bringing charges had risen to approach the circle. Irena and Jan both were surprised to see Count Vorkosigan appear on the screen, but only mildly. If this were a show rather an accident, the Emperor was clearly running it, and the entire House Vorkosigan was known for their Imperial associations.

The Embassy file on one Count Aral Alexander Vorkosigan was full of relative pronouns, and relatives: son of Lord Auditor Count Miles Naismith Vorkosigan; grandson of Vicereine Dowager Countess Captain Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan; grandson of Admiral Lord Regent Prime Minister Viceroy Count Aral Xav Vorkosigan; third cousin twice removed of the Barrayaran Emperor. It contained very little on the man himself, who, in fairness, was only twenty-three. 

Once, Irena would have thought it ridiculous that a twenty-three-year-old of no particular resume could have standing to prosecute a sitting member of a planetary legislature on his own personal recognizance. After three years on Barrayar, however, such a mundane issue had long ago faded into the wallpaper. Their judicial system was run by hereditary provincial governors who proudly claimed descent from glorified mob hitmen; the fact that one of them was twenty-three paled in comparison. She would have been concerned about the implications of this shift in her worldview, but her colleagues assigned to Cetaganda had reported similar effects on their awareness of bioethical issues. It was simply the adaptability of the human mind to its surroundings: a wonderful and a dangerous thing. 

The extended litany of charges that Count Vorkosigan was reading off, however, made Irena start biting her nails. Jan gulped down the last of his coffee to reach for a flimsy pad, muttering under his breath. If they had had any doubts about the deliberately performative nature of today’s broadcast, those doubts were now thoroughly dispelled.

 _Really_ , Irena thought to herself, as the list concluded. _“Wage theft?” The day a bunch of Barrayaran aristocrats are concerned about_ labor law _is the day we can all damn well retire._

As the evidentiary vidscreen descended, centered behind the Emperor’s head and within the frame of the continuing broadcast, Irena, unsettled, turned to her colleague.

“Jan,” said Irena quietly. “Jan. This is not normal. This is… They can’t possibly be expecting a conviction on that laundry list; it must be a prelude to something else. We need to call a curfew. Maybe not a general travel alarm, but get the nonessentials off the streets, at least.”

Jan, transfixed by the larger-than-life recorded testimony playing on the screen, nodded absently. “Yeah,” he said. “I agree. Did you notice his uniform?” He gestured towards the Emperor with the remains of his pastry. “He never wears that crap. Ridiculous pseudo-military thing with actual goddamn swords. He hates it. This is theater, pure and simple.” He tore his eyes away to meet Irena’s. “We’ll hold the travel alarm til we can see how this shakes out. But start the call tree.”

Irena went to go alert the clerical staff in the bullpen, stationed at their ranks of commconsoles in the adjacent room. They would start with the off-duty employees, and then go down the list of registered dependents, advising all of them of the developing situation, and to go home and stay there. On her way back, Irena stopped into her office to make a call of her own. 

Penda Solarin was an old friend and counterpart of Irena’s. She and Irena had met years ago, back when they were assistants to assistants in their respective delegations to Tau Ceti. Like Irena, Penda had been stationed all over the Nexus in the course of her career, but currently she worked in the Betan Embassy in Vorbarr Sultana. Irena was sure the Betan Embassy would take whatever care of their own staff turned out to be necessary - but it might not hurt to prod them about taking the situation seriously. The Betan diplomats were as competent as any of the Barrayar-stationed galactics, generally, but it took them longer to fully internalize how _antisocial_ the Barrayarans sometimes were, and the current Betan Ambassador was new. 

“Hi Penda,” she said, once the short, wire-haired woman appeared on the console screen. “Are you watching the broadcast?”

“What broadcast?” said Penda, frowning. “You mean the Council meeting? I thought they turned it off.”

Irena recapped the past ten minutes of Adventures in New Barrayaran Media, and her analysis of it, to her friend’s increasingly incredulous expression.

“So, you think this conviction is going to cause civil unrest, somehow?” she said skeptically, once Irena was finished. “I wouldn’t think the average citizen in the street would get that worked up about a kangaroo court for an aristocrat. Seems like normal Barrayaran justice to me.”

Irena shook her head. “I don’t think there’s going to be a conviction, and I think the Emperor already knows it, and I think that any ‘unrest’ that happens as a result will be a lot more military than civil.”

Penda chewed the inside of her lip, looking sideways at what must be an adjacent display. “Look, I know this is Barrayar, but all our psych profiles say the Residence decision-makers are quite civilized these days, relatively speaking. Histories of antisocial violence among the Emperor’s five-year cohort are down 65% over the Regent’s at the same age. I’m sure this is some sort of political intimidation tactic, but speculating about civil war seems a bit, well, dated, Irena. Are you sure you’re not letting historical baggage get in the way of analysis?”

Irena bit back a sigh of exasperation. Despite her years of diplomatic service around the Nexus, Penda could be very _Betan_ , sometimes.

“He’s wearing those ceremonial _swords_ , Penda,” she said instead. “What do your psych profiles say about the significance of displaying extraneous phallic weaponry? We’ve already started our curfew call tree over here. Whatever’s about to happen, we don’t want people’s dependents wandering into it running errands. At least turn on the broadcast and watch for yourself.”

Penda sighed. “Fine. I still think your concern is overblown, but the Ambassador will be wanting a report on the proceedings regardless. I’ll tune into the broadcast, at least, and see whatever’s going on.”

After exchanging an abbreviated version of the usual outgoing pleasantries, Irena ended the call, only slightly reassured. 

When she returned to the main vidscreen, a crowd had gathered. The expressions on their faces did not improve her mood.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

Isidro, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a nondescript face, who had worked at the Embassy in one vague capacity or another for the better part of ten years, leaned over to mutter in her ear. “They’re still introducing evidence,” he said, without taking his eyes off the broadcast. “It’s ghastly. Be glad you missed the medical testimony. And he hasn’t taken his eyes off the vidcorder this whole time.”

“He,” of course, referred to the Emperor, who indeed was just where Irena had left him, sitting like a statue in the middle of the screen. Irena was sure it was something in the epigenetic inheritance of this wartorn planet, that allowed such a blank face to look simultaneously so menacing.

The presentation of evidence continued, astonishingly, for another hour. People drifted in and out, whispering to each other; the entire Embassy would know the basics by now, from office gossip if not their spouses on the official call tree. Irena stayed in her armchair, watching the vidscreen and her colleagues in turn; unlike many of them, who still had paperwork and potential emergency prep to do, monitoring the developing situation was her most pressing duty. 

The mood in the Embassy was odd. On the one hand, this was obviously a show trial, and almost certainly the shadow of some Imperial sword being held above the entire planet. On the other, if even a fraction of the evidence being broadcast from Vorhartung was true, drastic action by the Emperor was probably the only medium for any sort of justice, in Barrayar’s ridiculous legal system. Most of that evidence would be completely inadmissible in any Escobaran court, but that hardly mattered to most of those watching, outside the Embassy. On Barrayar, the very idea of a criminal procedure that would exclude fast-penta testimony was absurd, and Irena knew from her few attempts to debate this point with the locals that this view extended much farther down the feudal ladder than the Counts in Vorhartung. It was the truth, wasn’t it? Why protect the guilty? There were human rights advocates on the fringes, of course, but the concept of curtailing abusive investigative practices was literally foreign to the average Barrayaran.

At last, the presentation of evidence concluded, and the vote began. The Emperor, fourth in line, deferred his own vote until the end. Irena’s fingernails suffered.

The crowd in the reception area grew larger, as awareness trickled out through the corridors that the trial was approaching the finish line. The tension grew incrementally with each new addition. The only sound in the room was the roll call of the broadcast, the increasingly rapid breathing of the audience, and the scratching pens of those keeping track of the tally.

“Thirty-one!” several voices yelled out, when the magic number was reached. A majority for acquittal. Irena closed her eyes. In theory, that was that, but she had very little hope that it would be that simple.

When she opened them, the Emperor’s expression on the vidscreen was unchanged. His gaze was fixed, implacable, on the vidcorder. Irena almost felt him staring straight at her, daring her to pay attention.

“Shit,” Irena muttered, under her breath. The Emperor’s tactic was becoming more and more obvious. Why broadcast such a mountain of evidence, unless to garner public support to whatever you were about to do to those who rejected it? Astonishingly, the Counts themselves still appeared to be oblivious. Several of those visible on the vid pickup looked downright bored. 

Irena hoped they weren’t about to watch some sort of mass execution at the end of all this. On the one hand, even Barrayarans might have the decency to turn the vidcorders off first; on the other, what good was a show trial if you didn’t film the finale? The nails on her right hand were down to the quick; she replaced them with her pen cap, and tried to take notes on which remaining Counts were voting Not Guilty.

The vote concluded, and came back around to the Emperor, who took his time in speaking. In the Embassy, the impromptu watch party, which now included all the advisors and most of the clerical staff, held its collective breath.

“The Imperium exists within its people,” the Emperor began. “It is brought to life, every day, by their breath on their voice, and their soul on their breath, and by the loyalty and dedication represented by…”

He continued on, addressing, through the vidcorder, the very people he was describing. As he’d been doing by proxy all this morning, in fact, through every glance and gesture and piece of evidence. It was, Irena admitted to herself as she scrambled to take notes, a very well-done piece of theater, and a good speech.

What it was absolutely _not_ , was a vote.

The Counts visible in the broadcast weren’t alarmed, necessarily, but several of them were starting to look increasingly tense. They had all considered the trial over the minute Count Vortienne had cast the thirty-first Not Guilty vote, but technically speaking, until the last vote - the Emperor’s - had been cast, it was still going on. Irena wasn’t entirely certain what the Council procedure on filibusters was in these circumstances. Given Barrayar, it probably wasn’t acceptable to interrupt the Emperor, even if the timing of his speech was against protocol.

“We cannot abide this injustice, or this erosion of the values of the Imperium,” the Emperor continued, still very much addressing his people rather than his peers. “Count Vorcaron, and every Count who voted, against all evidence and honor, to acquit him, is hereby stripped of his Countship, and exiled from the capital. We Request and Require that their heirs appear before Us with all due speed, to make oath to their Emperor and assume their positions of authority - and responsibility. May they serve with more honor than their predecessors.”

Irena’s mouth dropped open. She wasn’t alone, either in the Embassy or in Vorhartung. The entire city must be holding its breath.

“Fuck,” said Jan, into the resounding silence. “Ok, now we can issue that travel alarm. Paolo!”

Jan’s personal assistant hurried up, tapping at a commpad, looking as unnerved as everyone else, but managing it well. 

“We’ve got a hundred and fifty-three Escobaran nationals currently on the planet on a temporary basis,” he said. “Including one big tour group of sixty. Luckily, they’re off gawking at the crater in Vorkosigan’s District at the moment, which, um, probably isn’t going to be a flashpoint.” His eyes twitched over to the vidscreen briefly. “We’ve got another sixty-two here in Vorbarr Sultana, though, and the rest are scattered all over various other Districts. If they’ve kept to their itineraries, anyway; it’s not like they’re binding. And, um, looks like two passenger liners and four commercial transports under Escobaran flag scheduled to arrive here in the next week.”

“Right.” Jan sighed. “Prioritize the tourists who’re supposed to be in the capital, and then work outwards towards anyone in the Districts that just got, uh, realigned. And write up something passive aggressive about the importance of accurate self-reporting for travel security in Level 2 locations; we can release it later, after we make sure nobody’s died.”

Paolo drifted off to comply, fingers flitting over the pad as he muttered darkly to himself.

Jan clapped his hands together. “Ok, people!” he said, raising his voice and dialing down the volume on the broadcast to be heard across the room. On the screen, at least one person was standing up and gesturing vehemently, but no weapons had been drawn - yet. 

“We’ve got a developing political situation here,” Jan continued. “I am officially moving us to Security Advisory Level 3. This is not yet an emergency, but it could easily become one at any time. The call tree should have taken care of this, but anyone with dependants should check that they’re at home. Anyone with responsibility for secured materials, please review the triggers and procedures for emergency destruction. We’re not even close to that yet, but better safe than sorry. Everyone else, please consult the orange folders in your contingency binders for any other instructions relevant to your position, and try to resume business as usual if there’s nothing you need to do at this time. I’ll send out an Embassy-wide message shortly, but please let any coworkers who didn’t join us know the deal as well. I’ll be in my office if you have questions.”

He made his way in that direction through the crowd, muttering to Irena as he passed, “Of all the days for the Ambassador to be on leave, huh? Come see me when you get a chance.”

The bustle of returning motion spread out from him as he passed, metaphorical circulation returning to the limbs of the Embassy. No one was panicking, of course, though the adrenaline in the air was thick enough to cut. Irena’s colleagues were professionals, and the Embassy had procedures for everything - including, this being Barrayar, for sudden civil war. As the impromptu watch party broke up, people dispersed by twos and threes back to their work stations, to fish out their color-coded folders and ready themselves for the rest of the day.

The banks of commconsoles in the bullpen next door jangled into life, the ringing of incoming vidcalls summoning their minders back to their stations. Hopefully, this would be some of those sixty-two capital-area tourists calling to check in, and not the ex-pat press corps trying to wrangle a hot take out of “a source at the Escobaran Embassy.”

Eventually, Irena was left mostly alone with the vidscreen, which was still showing the Council Chamber. It was a somewhat confused mess of flashy Counts’ robes and dark ImpSec uniforms, but against all odds it didn’t seem to have turned violent. She watched until that room, too, emptied out, leaving only a handful of Counts. She checked their colors against her hastily-compiled voting list; sure enough, these were the twenty who had voted with the Emperor. They milled around, many of them crowding around a figure she assumed was Vorkosigan, but otherwise looking fairly at a loss. Unusually, Irena sympathized with them. Watching that had been bad enough; front row seats to what was effectively a coup of your own legislature could not have been pleasant. 

Finally, the vidcorder cut off in truth, and the inevitable talking heads appeared. Their speeches would be almost as important as the Emperor’s - full of lies, maybe, but you had to know what the official propaganda was saying - but Irena, preoccupied with everything that had just happened, could only listen with half an ear.

Like most issues related to Barrayaran domestic politics, it was hard for her to know how exactly how she felt. Imperial-level policy often looked progressive, at least relative to Barrayar’s past, and to some of the District-level Counts - until it really, really didn’t. This political show trial had been a blow for the rule of law, in some ways, and a blow to its underlying foundations, in others. Was is the start of more systemic reform, or just an Imperial power grab on a pretext, one step further back to the fascism of the previous generation, or the despotism of an even earlier one? One thing was certain; that speech would keep scores of pundits and political analysts at work around the Nexus, at least for the next several news cycles. More, if the level of violence Jan was worried about really did materialize.

But, in the meantime, someone had to tell those Escobaran passenger liners to find another destination. She stood up, taking her now historically-important flimsies with her, and strode off to Jan’s office to plan.


End file.
